


each wish resigned

by fuckboy



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU, M/M, Memory Erasure, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-22 19:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckboy/pseuds/fuckboy
Summary: “You erased me first! You did this to us, Claude. You’re the reason they’re taking this away.”“What about you? What did you do to make me erase you?”AKA—were they fated to get back together or are they doomed to break up again?





	each wish resigned

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you won’t need to watch the movie to understand what’s going on. It’s a pretty popular flick, though. Title comes from the poem that also inspired the title of the movie. I love Cheesby so much, ugh. Can’t believe there’s no hockey till October.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Do not allow me to forget you”_

Sid boards the train with a certainty that doesn’t quite match the amount of thought given to it, prior to just... jumping out of bed, clock reading 5:47, determined to get to Union Station and take the Pennsylvanian in this cold cloudy Monday morning. He’s packed enough for a ‘weekend’ trip, snacks and drinks for the ride—all in a duffel bag, the promise of a couple days out of Pittsburgh too tempting. As soon as he falls into his seat, Sid takes his phone out, he needs to call someone.

“Hi, Flower? Hey, I’m—” He doesn’t really know what to say. “I’m heading to Philly.”

“Of course you’re ditching us—” Flower pauses for a second, “wait– you’re— _what?”_ Then his voice gets serious. “Why are you doing that?”

“I don’t know.” Sid admits.

“Well, _I_ have an idea.”

“You do?”

“I mean, no,” another brief silence, “no. Are you— Are you sure you _don’t_ know what you’re doing?”

“I just woke up this morning and,” he’s been trying to shake a headache since he got out of bed. “I don’t really have a plan.”

“Is it too late to turn back and come home?” Flower asks. “We were supposed to meet today. Did you... forget that? We wanted to check up on you.”

“Check up on me?”

“If you’re on your way to Philadelphia we definitely need to check up on you.”

“Did I drink yesterday? So much I literally don’t remember a single thing about last night? And I’m using the word ‘literally’ correctly. How did I— _we?_ get wasted? I could swear I went to bed early... did you come, took me somewhere?”

“Sid...”

“I’ve been having these... weird headaches. A hangover? Is that why you wanted to check up on me?”

“Is it too bad?”

“They’re short, but sharp,” he fights the urge to massage at his temples. “It’s bearable.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go to Philly.”

“I just thought,” Sid pushes back, “feels like forever since I’ve been there. I could have some fun. I took an Amtrak train.”

“ _What?_ Why not taking a plane?”

“Oh, it’s more about the _‘took the midnight train goin’ anywhere’_ mood, I guess?”

“Except it’s not even 8 AM. And you know where you’re going.”

“I still count as a _small town girl?”_

“Sid. You’re making no sense.” A deep sigh on the other line. “You know what I always say when you’re weird like that: okay. I got you. I don't understand, but I won’t ask.” Sid still can hear the concern in his voice. “Just, take care, yeah? Watch those headaches.”

“Thank you.” He really means it. “That’s— It’s not really anything to worry over. I just– I know it’s impulsive. But I think I’m in a good mood just because of that, like I can’t stop thinking _‘look at you, Mr. Unpredictable’—_ ” Sid lets out a little laugh, “so I guess it’s a good thing after all.”

“Well, if you’re just being a dork, I guess I really shouldn’t worry.” He says, voice hushed and empathetic. “You’re right, it could be good for you. Call me if... something happens? Have fun _for real, ‘small town girl’.”_

_Could have some fun._

*

The first thing Sid notices is the hair. The orange-gold locks curling just below the nape of a pale neck. It’s either gelled and greasy or still damp from a morning shower. Or maybe what he notices first is the orange of the sweatshirt, almost hurting the eyes this early. Sid’s eyes follow the alluring figure all the way as it walks past him and disappears behind a door, until Sid’s left staring at the entrance-exit. Maybe it’s the strong cologne what gets to Sid, it smells like... leather, musky or woodsy—how do you even describe it? It just stays. Probably put on too much, like when you say _only three sprays_ but end up spraying six or seven times anyway – such is the nature of man.

_Am I a creep?_

Sid glances up when the door opens again, almost reflexively, eyes catching again on the orange, though this time he gets to see the front of the sweatshirt, a Flyers logo embroidered on the chest. Sid checks the man out—the way his hair curls behind his ears, the ginger stubble, the squint of his eyes as he stops in his tracks and stares back, curious, most likely. Surprising himself, Sid doesn’t quickly look away, just spares a nod hoping for the guy to keep walking to his seat, only to shy away when the stranger gives him a smile in return.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The man slides in the seat in front of him, and just as Sid thinks he can finally relax, a head pops up over the seat, his smile hasn’t faltered.

“I’m sorry. If I— I wasn’t—”

“How far are you going?” He inquires.

“Uh, Philly.”

“Oh, same. You live there?”

“No, just,” Sid wasn’t exactly expecting a conversation, “visit from time to time.”

“You like the city?”

“I like watching the Pens on the road,” the corners of his mouth quirk up, “things like that.”

“Hockey fan, eh?” The guy looks down at his sweatshirt, then back at Sid with a smirk. “Sorry, unapologetic Flyers fan here.”

That makes Sid cackle. “So _you_ live in Philly.”

“I do. But I’m not a Flyers fan _because_ I live in Philly.”

“Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hmm,” it’s a bustle of movement as Flyers-fan-guy switches seats, sitting beside Sid. “What about Flyers games? Pens games? Pittsburgh is a shithole, but seems like the boys have a... soft spot for the Consol,” he says, smiling a shit-eating grin, “it’s worth the trip. A great place if you want to see a Flyers win. I’m in Pittsburgh a lot—don’t really have a reason, especially now with no hockey, lockout isn’t looking good.”

The suddenness of the company is unexpected, but Sid is in just enough of a mood to allow it. “I know... sucks not knowing what’s gonna happen. A couple friends are Pens season ticket holders, I go to so many games...”

“Are those nice seats as well?”

“By nice seats you mean like glass seats, or seats where you can actually watch the whole game nicely?”

“Shut up. Glass seats are sweet, in the right place: right behind the net, but off to the side a bit so the net itself isn’t in the way, where my team shoots twice.”

At least he’s talking hockey. Sid can talk hockey. “But you have to admit first row in the upper bowl, center ice is the best place to watch every play develop and see all the ice, and you also have the great jumbotron views,” Sid adds. “But if we’re talking glass seats, you’ve got it right. I like those too, not bad every once in a while.”

“Really? You don’t look like the ‘bang on the glass’, ‘excited for seeing a dude get his face smashed in’ kind of guy to me.”

“I’ve had glass seats for games at both Consol and Wells Fargo... I think I’d remember you.” Sid goes back to the first question.

“You think so? Think I’m a dude worth remembering?”

“That isn’t—”

“I’ve had center ice 200’s seats too. I’m telling you, there’s gotta be something.” He’s slumped in his seat, seemingly unaware of the way he’s broken into Sid’s space. “Maybe it’s my hair.”

“What about it?”

“Orange. It blends in with the jersey. Don’t laugh, I’m serious. Even more at Wells Fargo. I go full camo. That’s why you might not have noticed me.”

_‘Don’t laugh’, he says._ “I think you being a ginger only makes you more recognizable.”

“Nobody cares about ginger men. Redhead chicks? Cute, hot. Dudes? Soulless leprechauns and whatever—I’m not even Irish. Or like, the rugby player British accent type who _would_ get recognized.”

“Hey. You said I don’t look like the kind of guy who’d... act like a monkey, at glass seats,” now Sid goes back to that assumption. “Well, don’t tell me you’d be the obnoxious type who’d try to chirp the players and do something embarrassing on camera...”

“ _Moi?_ Because I’m a gingy? Like, the drunk, ginger, Irish stereotype?”

“I didn’t—”

“Anyway, it’s true – not the Irish stereotype. I’m a mess. Confrontational, tactless... an attention whore.”

“Oh, I doubt that’s all there is about you.”

Sid sees a furrow of the brows. “Well, you don’t know me, so... not like you’d know.”

“Sorry. I was just— trying to be nice.” He shrinks in his seat, averts the guy’s gaze.

“A nice boy, of course.” Ginger man scoffs.

“Maybe it’s the voice. You work at a call center or something?”

“No. And I barely had talked before you asked if you knew me. You that good at voice recognition? And anyway, voice sounds different over the phone, right?” It comes out harsher than Sid intended.

The guy makes a face. “Right.”

“Name’s Claude, by the way.”

Sid shakes the offered hand. “I’m Sidney.”

“No chirps about my name? Oh, you wouldn’t do that. You’re trying to be nice.”

“Like what?” Sid ignores the last part.

“You kidding me? For starters, butch the pronunciation, like Americans do.”

“I’m Canadian.”

“I’m Canadian too. What are the odds?”

“Hockey could’ve been a sign.”

“But I’m still guessing you’re English.”

“And you’re French-Canadian?”

“From Ontario.”

“Was thinking Québec.”

“Everybody always thinks Québec.”

“You know, at first I was actually thinking you were the typical Irish-American from Philly.” Claude frowns at that. “Anyway, it didn’t really occur to me to pronounce your name wrong.”

“Come on. Chirp me. Ask me if it’s a woman’s name.”

“It does kinda sound feminine.”

“Says Sidney.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re named after a city.”

"That isn’t—” _This dude._ “And it isn’t spelled like the city... And that’s a bad chirp.”

“Who said it was a chirp?”

Sid lets out a defeated sigh. “Your English is pretty good for a francophone.”

“Lost your chance to tell me I have a soft voice.”

“You get that often?”

Claude shrugs. “It’s a little bit nasal, isn’t it?”

“To me it just sounds... French.”

“Is that a chirp?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Still, don’t let that fool you. Nothing soft about me. I’m a petty bitch who loves holding grudges.”

“See, I wouldn’t think that about you.”

“Why wouldn’t you think that about me?”

“I don’t know. I was just...” _Not again._ “I don’t know. You seem nice, so—”

“Now _I’m_ nice?”

There’s an ache behind Sid’s eyes. “Well— I’ll reconsider it?”

“Good. Nothing interesting about being ‘nice’.”

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to say something here, his focus on the ceiling.

“It doesn’t reveal anything... It’s actually a great way to camouflage yourself,” presses Claude. “Here, I’m nice, let me be a sneaky piece of shit while everyone’s busy talking about how nice I _pretend_ to be.”

Sid tries to take in everything he says, expression something between horrified and amused. Yeah, Claude’s a... funny guy — _and moody_.

“...There’s more to life, more to being a complex human being— than just being _nice_. More to show, more to express, more to _be_...”

“Okay.”

“ _‘Okay’”_ Claude rolls his eyes. “That’s another easy word.”

“I’m... sorry?”

“See, you keep saying— these words, these kind of... empty words.” Maybe now Sid’s getting... nervous? Claude seems to notice. “Don’t make that face. Let me say them back, yeah? It’s okay. _I’m_ sorry. I’m— glad that you’re nice.”

_Really moody._ Sid nods, smile unreasonably easy on his face.

“Maybe I’m contradicting myself now but, that’s on you, so, I won’t lose sleep over that.”

“Well, um, now that you mention it,” he cracks his neck, sits up straighter. “Sleep. I was thinking, till— you know—”

“Oh. Sure, yeah, I’ll just—” Claude slides out of the seat. “Sweet dreams. Gonna need the extra energy, for Philly.”

“Well if everyone’s like you over there—”

“There’s only one me. You’ll survive.” And just like that he’s gone. His cologne stays, however.

There is not much scenery to look at, landscape spotted with heavy industry, houses, trees... _nothing between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia._ Sid can see smoke coming from a factory, eyes feeling heavy, headache pulsing at his temples.

The Horseshoe Curve, the Allegheny Mountains, the Susquehanna River, a stopover at Harrisburg, ginger walking along the platform—they’re probably the same height, though Claude looks leaner—, Amish lands, trees, houses...

_It was just damp._

Philly.

*

There’s only one him, for sure. And he’s everywhere Sid goes.

First, it’s the coffee shop. He watches him— _Claude_ , enter and busy himself sitting down opposite, just a few seats in front of Sid. He isn’t carrying his suitcase anymore, reminding Sid he’s yet to find a place to stay. A waiter approaches him and Sid’s close enough to make out part of the conversation,

_Well, if it ain’t G_

_Been a while hasn’t it_

_Sure has been — You know what you want?_

_Ain’t that the question of the century._

Claude orders a grilled cheese sandwich and plain black coffee. Sid’s not sure what to make of it, or why he even thinks he has to make something of it. He tries to look around the place, it stopped raining a while ago, but the windows are still wet and the remaining droplets manage to catch Sid’s attention for a moment, until his eyes inevitably find Claude’s. A tilt of the head, and he raises his cup in a kind of friendly greeting. Sid raises his own steaming cup in acknowledgement and sees Claude smile vaguely, stare intently. Sid can’t hold his gaze for long.

_I’m a creep._

Sid looks down into his drink, lets the steam settle on his face.

*

Then it’s the bar. It’s cold and it’s dark when Sid rents a car and drives to South Philly. He hasn’t found a hotel yet but at least he can leave the duffel bag in the car now. He spent what was left of the afternoon walking around Center City and exploring the historic district, and maybe it felt a little like it was his first time in Philly. Sid still doesn’t know what was it that made him think of coming here today, but he might as well keep going along with it and enjoy the ride. He considers Washington Square West for a very brief moment but opts for picking up a car rental and head to the sports complex area, which was his plan from the start.

There’s a basketball game going on right now, Sid assumes as he sees Sixers and Knicks jerseys everywhere he looks, busy streets and bars despite being a Monday night. He’s familiar with this, sort of, he’s been here many times for the _hockey version_ of a sports night out. It’s... different, somehow, from the atmosphere of a Flyers game, though his opinion on Philly sports fans remains the same regardless of the sport — Sid hears a loud guy in a Carmelo Anthony jersey shout: _“Sixers ain’t shit”_ and perhaps that’s why it feels different, the team _“sucks dick now”_ and _“there are more Knicks fans here than Sixers fans”_. That makes him wonder when was the last time the 76ers won a championship, can’t be longer than the Flyers drought... He misses hockey. If there was no lockout, the Pens would be playing the Hawks tonight in Chicago, Sid’s sick enough to remember. He smiles a little when his mind brings back the conversation on the train. Sid probably would have come here to watch the first Pens-Flyers of the season on October 18, but he wouldn’t have seen Claude back then because he “goes full camo” among all the orange at Wells Fargo. The highlight of this trip thus far.

It takes him a while to notice Claude this time. He’s been at the bar longer than Sid, and he may or may not have been staring at Sid for some time. Claude looks comfortable, relaxed, cool– in his element, perhaps. It doesn’t look like he’s really watching the game, just chatting animatedly with whoever’s close to him. Doesn’t look like he’s drinking either. And doesn’t look away when Sid stares back. Sid sees a light smirk before going back to his drink and taking a big swig. He still has to figure out if he’s in the mood for drinking, right now, he doesn’t think he’ll make it to two beers.

Strangely, this bar was the first place that crossed Sid’s mind while looking up the Amtrak schedules this morning, probably the best bar around the area. It’s nice, clean, the food is great, the big screen TV is...big. Sid’s not a fan of watching games at bars. He’d rather watch them at home... He could have gone to Washington Square West – Sid doesn’t know how locals call it, Midtown Village seems to be a no-no... Pittsburgh doesn’t have a neighborhood like that, don’t believe anything you see on Queer as Folk. He’s traveled a lot, he knows about Boystown and Church and Wellesley—where Queer as Folk was actually filmed— and Dupont Circle and _Le Village_... it’s just... not for Sid. But he’s always been curious. Maybe he’s just desperate at this point.

Sid steals a glance at Claude, he’s wearing a toque now, tufts of hair sticking out the sides... people seem to like entertaining him. Sid for one knows Claude’s a good talker. _Why do I obsess over people for no reason at all?_ He’s had it too easy— friends fixing him up, guys coming to him first... Sid has been single for ages and hasn’t hooked up in forever. Maybe he could... He’s already broken his routine. He’s not in Pittsburgh...

He’s too awkward for this.

The Sixers lose the game and Sid leaves the bar, picks up a ‘traditional Philly hoagie’ on the way to the car. He drives around aimlessly for hours, like the streets are going to start meaning something to him as he turns around the corner, like this morning’s whim is going to suddenly make sense and he’ll find what he’s—not exactly—looking for. Sid drives without a purpose, the landscape flowing by but he doesn’t notice it. He knows it’s nothing like Pittsburgh. He’ll probably visit Old City again tomorrow. Maybe he’ll go to Washington Square West, if only to scratch that itch and be done with it. Sid feels the rhythmic pounding of an imminent headache creeping up his temples.

*

It’s that same damn orange that catches his eye.

“Hey, you need a ride?” He regrets rolling down the window as the cold rushes over him, but Claude doesn’t take long to decide.

“Thanks,” he grins as he piles in. “You’re the tourist here yet here you are taking me home.”

“I’m not exactly a tourist.” Sid sees Claude take off his toque, run his fingers through the fuzzy ginger hair. The red light changes. “You’re everywhere I go.”

“Hey, this is my city, it’s not me who’s looking like a stalker here.”

“Stalker? Me? You came to me first— even asked me if I knew you... or if you knew me.”

“That’s a weirdo, not a stalker.” Claude says matter-of-factly. “But yeah, I’m sorry I came off sort of... weird. I’m not really.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“Well, I am. Okay?”

“Weird is also an _empty word._ Or like, it gets used so much now... it doesn’t— people don’t see it as... such a bad thing...” Sid trails off. Claude’s eyes flash with amusement. Sid clears his throat. “Where to?”

“I’m a few minutes away from here, easy,” Claude answers, leaning against the window to look out. “Take a left,” he instructs. His breath fogs against the glass.

Sid studies Claude’s face more than the road. Something about the subtle downturn of his mouth. The ease of his expression.

He gets caught looking. “I saw you at the bar nursing the same beer for at least an hour.”

“You could have just said hi.”

“No, I like being a creep and stare from afar.”

It gets a chuckle out of Sid. “You know, I’m actually a little scared of how much I know my way around this area,” he opts for a change of topic. “It’s not like I come here _that_ often. Been driving around for... two hours? Someone asked me if I was lost.”

“Wait. So you left the bar and just... went driving around?”

“I didn’t— _don’t_ have much of a plan, to be honest.”

His hand almost slips when Claude speaks. “Did you book a room?”

“I—”

“You can pull up here,” he cuts Sid off. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Claude hesitates at the half open car door. He turns, gaze flitting low, unsure.

“Thank you. That was very _nice_ of you.” He says, finally.

“I need to start trying to stop being nice, don’t I?”

“Yep, offering rides to strangers is no good.”

“Actually—yeah, it’s not even nice, it’s plain stupid,” Sid deadpans.

Claude makes an aborted movement towards the open door, and then reconsiders.

“What?” Sid tilts his head.

“Baby it’s cold outside?”

He deflates in surprise. “You don’t think this is weird?”

“You could be a... serial killer? Yeah. _I_ could be a serial killer? I’m not but, seen from your side, yeah.” Claude points out, shifting in his seat.

“I’m not a serial killer.”

“So, a robber, burglar, thief? Like, a charming one with a very detailed and well-crafted MO?”

Sid snorts. “As if.”

“Just come have a drink or two with me. I have a nice bottle of wine. I’ll take care you don’t drink too much.”

“I need to find a hotel.” _I really can’t stay_.

“Inside.” _Baby it’s cold outside._ “You can make the calls.”

*

Hotel booked, Sid can finally process what’s going on right now. Somehow, his life decisions have brought him to the apartment of a man he’s met less than a day ago, fluffy red-gold hair disarming smile Flyers fan and all. Claude must be around his age, Sid tries not to stare when he pulls off his sweatshirt, T-shirt underneath almost coming off with it—It’s a _nice_ apartment, really nice, a decent bachelor pad. _He has to be single._ It’s clean, very clean, had to be cleaned up recently—Claude is attractive, Sid allows himself to think for the first time. And he’s interesting, _exciting_. Now, in his living room, in his couch, _that cologne_ —the scent is stronger, Sid likes it, though he would have expected Claude to be more the fruity, citrusy type, for some reason. Claude sways in the living room with the bottle hanging from his fingers. He uncorks it. The first gulp was swallowed down with no regard for letting the wine breathe. No pause to take in the bouquet. Sid watches Claude steal another drink as he gets closer.

“What do you know about wine?” Sid asks with a little smile, thinks any answer will do.

Claude looks clueless for a moment then peers at the bottle for a while, until one side of his mouth quirks up.

“Mm,” he inhales at the neck, then takes a long drink, “full-bodied. The aroma of... of rich forest fruits. Something—” He’s changed the tone of his voice, French accent in full swing. “Blackcurrant and oak,” he rasps, clears his throat, “something a little acidic, on the back of the palate.”

Sid looks at him, perplexed, and Claude takes another swig. He chokes on his own laughter until wine sprays out of his mouth, landing deep red on his gray T-shirt.

Sid snorts, too. They laugh in the middle of Claude’s too-big living room, the sound of it foreign in the space. It’s stupid. It’s good—but the ache of a migraine starts setting in again, premature, but not unexpected with how he’s been feeling during the day.

“The fuck you expect me to know?” Claude says while wiping the wine from his chin with the back of his wrist. “I’m a mess... why are you laughing?”

“Why did _you_ laugh?”

Claude heads into the kitchen to clean himself up.

“The things I do to make an uptight dude smile.” The light from the kitchen throws half his face into a hazy kind of shadow.

Sid doesn’t know why he seriously thought Claude would just take off his T-shirt and come back and sit next to him shirtless, just like that, like this was a romcom, or some cheap porno. At least, he certainly can just go change his shirt—instead, he’s just there patting the stain with a wet cloth... he looks like a mess, ridiculous, even, and for a brief second Sid wants to reconsider many of the thoughts he’s had tonight.

“It’s not that bad.” When Claude returns, wet T-shirt and all, he settles next to Sid, bringing with him the smell of wine and whatever he used to wash himself, a lemony soap, something like that.

He hands Sid the wine. A first sip is just sweet enough to smooth the way for a second. “So good.”

The bottle passes between them, and Claude takes the drink just as easy. He watches Sid quietly over the bottle, his mouth comes away wet when he swallows.

Sid can’t be reading the wrong signals here, can he? This isn’t just in his head, right? He’s doing this. He’s _done_ this. Giving him a ride must count as making the first move. If not, then Claude inviting him over was...

Sid can’t do this.

“Man of few words, aren’t you?”

“You talk enough for the both of us.” He says, mouth curving up. “I’m okay with that.”

“Hmm...” Claude frowns disapprovingly. “Do you believe in that stuff? The ‘opposites attract’ thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither. Oh, I saw this dog the other day—”

“You’re really nice. God, now _I_ have to stop saying that. You’re nervous around me, huh?” Claude grins, too loose, maybe loosened by alcohol, telling by the slightly unfocused glimmer in his eyes.

“No. Yeah. Sort of. Not really.” Sid buries his confusion in another sip of wine.

“I’m nervous. You don’t need to be nervous around me, though. I like you. Hey, do you think I’m ugly?”

“No, not at all.”

“I don’t either. I used to. Not anymore. Anyway, fuck the Pittsburgh Pingouins _—manchots_. I hate when people confuse the two words—yeah, _pingouin_ sounds like _penguin_ but penguin in French is _manchot_ , a _pingouin_ is a different animal who... kinda looks like a penguin but it’s _not the same_ a pingouin _can_ fly and—not like it happens often, I mean, how often do you casually talk about penguins—”

“Talk to me like I’m one of your French-Canadian buddies.” Sid doesn’t know what time is it, his head hurts from laughing at Claude’s cuckoo rants and the way he brings up random facts and... he doesn’t want it to stop. It’s good, Claude’s good for him.

“’Kay, C’mere.” Sid leans in and Claude laughs, right up close. His breath tickles his ear. _“Criss de calice de tabarnak d'osti de sacrament de trou viarge, osti d'épais de marde. Mon tabarnak j'vais te décalisser la yeule, calice.”_

Sid can’t help tilting his head to the side, giggling like a kid. “I’ll have you know I spent some time in Québec when I was younger. Have some French-Canadian friends, too. You always learn the bad words first—”

_“Tu me plais beaucoup.”_ Claude takes him by surprise, his breath on Sid’s mouth now.

He puts his hands on Claude’s chest, “Sorry– I’m not—”

Claude freezes, flickers of panic in his wide-eyed gaze. “Oh my God– You’re not—?”

“No, _no_. I _am_ ,” _why would he think—_ Sid drops his hands, tries to reassure him. “But I’m not sure– I don’t think—”

His body half-relaxes again. “Just. Don’t think.”

So Sid’s the one who closes the space between them this time, because this is what Sid wants, even if he can’t just not think. He tastes the wine on Claude’s lips. His head swims. It isn’t a _great_ kiss by any means, it’s clumsy and tentative and feels too chaste for all the anticipation Sid had built up in his mind. His hands in his lap like a clueless schoolboy, matching Claude’s awkward grip on his shoulder. Aren’t first kisses supposed to be like that? Not when he’s in his 20s. He needs so much more than that right now. But—it still works for them, it still does it for Sid. He’s left smiling against Claude’s lips and he goes in for another peck, and another, and one more until Claude pulls away and lets his head lean back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling.

“You know,” he brushes his fingers across his lips, “I’ve never been sure of anything in my life.” Then he runs his tongue over them. “That kiss was weird.”

Sid wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I liked it.”

“You’re gonna marry me, I know.”

“That’s a shitty proposal.” There’s a soft bite to the words, no real weight to them.

“I’ll think of something better,” replies Claude, dopey smile lighting up his face, “I will.”

“I should, uh, go now.”

“Okay.” Claude says after a long silence. “Call me?”

“Yes.”

They swap phones and put each other’s numbers in.

“What you said on the train... That’s _not_ —all there is about you.” Sid says as they head down the hall and towards the door. “Also, I don’t think we’re _opposites_.”

“It’s okay if you don’t call me, you know?” Claude offers along with a smile, expression soft. “I support your newfound goal of stopping being nice.” It’s uncomfortably genuine.

Sid gets to the car without giving an answer. He looks at his watch for the first time since he got here. _Way past his bedtime._ The hotel isn’t far from here, but now he has something else to do before going to sleep.

*

“What took you so long?” Claude picks up right away.

“I just walked in.”

“You miss me?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Oh! You said ‘I do’!” A titter and a muffled squeak. “Guess there’s no need to call a skywriter now.”

“Skywriting? That’s the best you could think of?”

“It’s been like, a minute since you left. Not much room to think.”

“Oh? I thought I had taken too long.”

“You did.”

“Miss me?”

“No time to miss you, had to think about the proposal.”

They both giggle over the phone, and Sid’s feeling all tingly and warm inside.

He feels like a teenager, embarrassingly so. “Hey, um... Calling you is not _being nice_... is doing what I want to do.”

“Okay.”

“ _Okay_ , an _easy word_.” It’s Sid’s turn to scoff.

“What, so now you’re just gonna turn my words on me?”

“Well,” he’s enjoying this way too much, “ _this time’s on you._ ”

“And that’s gonna keep me awake, you know that.”

“ _I’m_ gonna keep you awake. First of all, how dare you talk shit about the _CONSOL Energy Center_ , _technically_ , the last regular season game and the last playoff game—”

Claude’s clearly cracking up on the other line. “Give it up, man, Pittsburgh took the biggest L in the end— And if you bring up the Stanley Cup I’m hanging up on you—”

“Tomorrow night? Honeymoon on ice?”

“What do you mean ‘tomorrow’? Sun’s coming up anytime now.”

“It’s not ‘tomorrow’ until I go to sleep and wake up,” Claude mumbles. “Sweet dreams.”

*

Claude buys ice time for them the next night— _that_ night. 10:30pm-12:00am on a Tuesday is not bad at all. It’s a long drive and it looks like a sketchy place but it doesn’t matter. Claude has his contacts, or maybe he just lucked out—doesn’t matter. They do some skating, shoot some pucks, can’t get their hands—or their sticks, or their sneaky elbows—off each other, Claude sucks at chirping but _one_ good chirp, _one_ reaction and you just know it’s all worth it for him, Sid doesn’t even try.

This time Claude is the one who gives him a ride to the hotel.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks once they get in the car.

Sid doesn’t know if it’s confidence or ignorance that settles Claude’s tone so easily, but his tongue goes dry under his expectant gaze.

Stupidly, Sid wants to tell him off for saying the words aloud, for acknowledging it. The impulse is ridiculous. Infantile, even. Claude not making a move tells him he’s really expecting an answer.

“Yeah? Yes.”

Claude’s mouth curves into a grin, the same one that reaches his eyes, turns them dark and bright all at the same time.

He leans over the gear stick, hand at the back of Sid’s head. A firm kiss to Sid’s cheek.

Sid breathes through the jolt of adrenaline, eyes darting over the empty street, away from the sound of Claude’s sigh of satisfaction when he settles back into his seat. The smile is just as disarming in profile.

“Better than the one from last night, eh?”

Sid still wants so much more.

He falls asleep in the passenger seat, he’s stayed up late two nights in a row, a reminder — It’s hard to break the routine, no fit of impulsiveness is suddenly going to change things. Sid is still very much a creature of habit. His last thought before drifting off should’ve been that with Claude anything seemed possible. But thinking that kept him conscious for another while. It’s only been two days—no, it’s _already_ been two days, _when is he planning to go back?_ This was not in his plans. How long has it been since he’s felt this... warmth, revelled in it? He feels light—a lightheaded confusion, an aching tiredness in his bones, a buzzing in his ears—restless and exhausted at the same time...

He doesn’t need to be sure of this.

_Just don’t think._

*

*

*

“ _Flower._ ” Sid is a bundle of nerves by the time he picks up. “I need you to take me to the airport.”

“Where are you going?”

“Claude’s _gone_. He’s really—”

“Come to my house.”

Sid is in Cole Harbour when Claude comes back to pack up his stuff. Claude never returned after that night, that fight two weeks ago. The cold and quiet of the house felt unbearable, and Sid also didn’t want to think about what had happened, so he fled to his safe place. When he’s back in Pittsburgh home doesn’t quite feel like home anymore. The final nail in the coffin. For the first time it hits him, like the drop at the top of a roller coaster, Sid lets it sink in, the realization sets in: Claude has left him. _All their fears, all these years..._ Something twinges inside Sid, so deep and so sharp he feels like something in his chest is splitting in half. First comes despair, as Sid looks around the house for traces of him. Claude emptied out his closet but Sid still has so much of his stuff in his own...

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“He has to be in Ottawa.” Flower follows him on his rampage into his living room. “It’s... been going on long enough. I–I need to bring him back.”

“Sid,”

“He changed his number. _Two weeks ago._ He really— I don’t know what to do. I should have come earlier, _fuck_ , I shouldn’t have left. He’s never disappeared like that.”

“You told me _that night_ felt like a break-up. Now you know it — it’s a break-up.”

“Don’t say that. It can’t be— He can’t do that. We needed to talk, we _need_ to talk.”

“Maybe you need to look at this as a sign to move on.” He offers, his tone deliberately careful now. “Just make a clean break.”

“What are you talking about? We– I know we’ve had bad times— It’s—three years. I said horrible things. Flower. You know I _need_ him. And then you say— Just what are you—”

“Sid.”

There’s a moment of silence when they’re both staring at each other in disbelief; Flower’s expression unreadable, Sid utterly confused.

Dread washes over Sid. “What do you know?”

Flower disappears through the doorway, and the room seems to shrink in his absence. Sid sinks down onto the couch, stares at his fidgeting hands. He reappears nursing a glass of water, and hands over the beige envelope with something like pity in his eyes.

It’s rough along the seam, the glue dry against his fingers like it’s been a while since it was opened. The card inside is a neat rectangle. Flower reads it over his shoulder, even though he already knows what’s there.

The earth doesn’t turn for a singular person. It stands to reason that it won’t stop for a singular person either, but Sid is compelled to believe otherwise as he reads the note between his trembling fingers.

_Dear Mr. Fleury_

_**Claude Giroux** has had **Sidney Crosby** erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again._

_Thank you._

_LACUNA INC._

“What is this?”

Immediately, Sid regrets asking. Flower is not a serious person, but neither is he a cruel one, and any notion of this being a practical joke is revoked by the pity on his face.

“I looked them up. I didn’t want to— I mean, you’ve told me, you know he’s insecure about— he knows _you’re_ insecure about this kind of— I don’t see Claude pulling a prank with this.”

“He would not.”

“Right. So I wanted to make sure...” His gaze on Sid is wary, as if waiting for the initial cracks to surface. “They’re real, Sid. And I know it’s gotta be tempting to find out for yourself, but—”

Then it’s all rage. “That fucking asshole.”

“You know he’s impulsive,” Sid hears faintly.

“Fuck this shit, I’ll go see him,” he hisses, harsh grip bending the card under his thumb. “He’s still here, right? He came back—to fucking _erase_ me? I need him to see me. What fucking right does he think he has,” he’s muttering, he knows. The breaths are coming too fast, but he’s cold, cold down to his shaking fingertips. “To leave me alone with this...” Sid’s having trouble inhaling oxygen into his lungs and transforming it into words. “What a piece of shit.”

He breathes, and stands up. It’s easier than it should be, to shake the chaotic emotions off until he feels cold again, until everything settles back into place. The room around him is still too small. Flower must have said something in response, but the words seem distant from where Sid is standing. They’re no longer on the same wavelength; Flower is still part of the turning world.

Sid can only watch as it leaves him behind.

What’s left is emptiness.

*

Sid doesn’t go after Claude, after all. He texts Flower that much. Instead, he seeks out the address on the card — the clinic apparently responsible for erasing him from Claude’s memory.

He schedules an appointment.

*

“This,” he doesn’t bother with greetings. Sid sets the mangled card on the table, his eyes seeking the doctor’s. He’s white on white on white in the small office space. Even the air is sterile.

The doctor—Dr. Bettman picks it up and holds it lightly in sterile, blunt fingers. “Oh. Mr. Crosby,” is all he manages to say at first. “You should not have seen this. Very unprofessional of us, I–”

“This is not a real thing.”

“It is. But our files are confidential, _Mr. Crosby_ , so I can’t show you evidence,” says Dr. Bettman, apologetic and unsympathetic all at once. “Suffice it to say that _Mr. Giroux_ was not happy. He wanted to move on. We provide that possibility.”

_Move on— What the hell is that?_

“Then I’d like to know about the other possibilities,” Sid presses. “What’s the reversal process?”

“Excuse me?”

“The reversal process, fuck. Who do I have to pay? What do I have to do?” He fumbles for words, doesn’t know himself what he’s trying to say. “This can’t be serious. _Three years._ You can’t just— You shouldn’t— I have all this— _I still_ have our memories. Use them. There’s gotta be something—”

“I’m afraid the procedure is mostly permanent,” Dr. Bettman explains, “the brain is complex enough as it is. This... The most that can be expected is the barest sense of emotional or mental discomfort. It eventually goes away. The memories— they don’t come back.”

Sid digests this information. It rocks through him like alcohol, fuzzing his logical thoughts and making him act on impulse and instinct and _this is your fault._ Between one breath and the next, he makes up his mind.

“I want it done,” he declares.

*

_Now, the first step, is to go home and collect everything you own that has some association with Claude. Anything. We will use these objects to create a sort of mental map of his presence in your life over the past three years and eight months._

_We’ll dispose of these mementos once the mapping is done._

_Then our technicians will do the erasing in your home. Take your time, we’ll see you again in two days, think you need three?_

_We are told this a lot — “everything reminds me of them”. But remember, you’ll forget everything about Claude. Home will stop feeling empty. There won’t be anything to miss. Bring the stuff that could make you feel confused later by their unexplainable presence in your home. Photos, clothes, gifts, letters or journal entries – the obvious things. Don’t complicate yourself by overthinking about it. We need your mind to be sure of this._

*

Claude had already done half of the job in Pittsburgh. He also must have needed to do some work in Philly and Ottawa. But Sid doesn’t really think it’s any easier for him. He goes to Cole Harbour, then he’s back in Sewickley. Sid meticulously inspected every inch of his houses, gathering all the items and miscellaneous shit left behind by Claude, even the stuff that had originally been Sid’s and had then migrated towards that nebulous, tentative, and yet wishful territory in which each other’s things belonged. But it’s not the obvious things – the photos, the clothes, the gifts...

Sid remembers buying some ugly oven mitts that reminded him of hugs from behind and kisses on the back of the neck and this one ridiculous discussion they had while cooking one night about ‘spirit vegetables’ and Claude being a carrot and Sid being a potato that somehow carried on through dinner, because leave it to them to have strong opinions on veggies. He guesses he could technically keep these. Claude bringing a stupid pot for a plant they never bought that they end up breaking while playing with a soccer ball inside the house on a rainy day... then spending the rest of the afternoon gluing the pieces back together, because why not. There were holes where the pieces didn’t fit together just right and they’ve never been that good at jigsaw puzzles, but Sid remembers how proud they were of the job they’d done afterwards, so they just kept it in the living room and every time someone asked about it they’d just look at each other with such...

He’s not sure of this.

Sid remembers one of his favorite days with Claude, a full day out of the house, shopping like a married couple, not long after addressing the elephant in the room for the first time and formally discussing Claude moving into Sid’s house.

They spent the whole morning at IKEA after having had breakfast at IHOP, Claude’s fondness for anything orange going from amusingly endearing to mildly disconcerting to downright infuriating, and knowing Claude, that was probably what he was trying to go for, yet at the same time there he was trying to make Sid lighten up by making jokes about the names of the furniture. They came across these ugly cushions—much can be said about their penchant for picking up ugly stuff, Claude being tacky and Sid just not having any sense of style whatsoever—that now still very much smell like Claude and bring back way too serious pillow fights and ‘we should try it’ floor sex and that one time they argued about getting a dog which resulted in an ugly fight and Sid had to sleep on the couch because just being exiled to a guest room wasn’t ‘symbolic’ enough.

After that they went for lunch at Red Lobster before wasting an entire afternoon at Costco—they never learned their lesson with bulk foods there—, where Sid tried to poke back at Claude making compelling arguments and objections over the most mundane decisions and shoving stuff they had never taken before into the cart, which managed to throw Claude off for at least two seconds, which was enough for Sid. He finds a notebook that was part of a 6-pack he randomly put in the cart that day then forgot to put back then ended up at home with the rest of the stuff. Sid attempts to read the scribbles that Claude calls handwriting—hockey plays??, cheese lists, Country lyrics??, the specific brands of jelly and peanut butter Sid likes... Then it comes back to him. Claude drawing a heart and scribbling the letters G C inside it.

_Is that for Giroux Claude or Grilled Cheese?_

_Well, we kinda go hand in hand_

Sid drew a heart as well and wrote PB&J in the center.

_Yes, I know you like PB &J_

_We. Peanut butter and jelly. Very different but together make a perfect fit. And yes, I like it_

_You’re talking like a middle schooler with his first crush_

_You’re the one who started drawing hearts and initials_

_I don’t know, who’s peanut butter and who’s jelly? I feel like we’d seriously need to have a talk to set it right_

_Claude, no! You’re not gonna suck me into a stream of consciousness on fucking PB &J_

_Giroux-Crosby_

_Hm?_

Claude pointed at the notebook.

They considered for a second finishing the night with a steak at LongHorn before deciding on hurrying to DICK’S before they closed, they didn’t need anything from there, but still went in, just because. They ended up buying so much stuff they _definitely_ didn’t need. Of course they somehow managed to spend more at their impromptu trip to DICK’S than they did on their planned purchases. They had to go golfing to justify a third of their purchases, then fishing, then almost put a basketball rim in the backyard... Putting everything in felt like a game of car Tetris.

Back at home, done with unloading, they took a bath together and made out lazily in bed for about two minutes before falling asleep on each other, bone tired. The kind of tired that felt good, _right_. Everything was right and Sid wanted to feel like that forever, chase that feeling and go after Claude and never let go...

_Home will stop feeling empty. There won’t be anything to miss._

This is so wrong.

Three fucking years. He was going to lose all this in— a night’s sleep? Like it had all been a dream, like it hadn’t meant a thing.

But this is not on Sid. Claude took that decision for him first.

His mind is sure of this.

*

Tanger texts him that night.

_I got his new number_

_I know I shouldn’t be telling you this_

_Flower told me what happened_

_But if you can make the right decision while still having that option_

_That’s the real first step towards moving on_

_Don’t do anything stupid, you dumbfuck_

*

“Allo ?”

“Hey— Claude?”

“Oui ? Qui est à l’appareil ?”

It’s the first time Sid’s heard that voice in weeks. “ _Claude..._ Wh– Where are you?”

“Hm? Who is it?”

“Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you didn’t—” It comes out weak, like a whisper or a plea—it _is_ a plea, falling on deaf ears, on a blank mind. Sid knows it, but still—

“What—?”

“You fucked us up, Claude, _how could you?”_

“Is this a prank or something? Who gave you my phone?”

The confusion in Claude’s voice where there should be resentment. _Something._

“It’s _me_. You can’t fucking remember me because— _You gave up on us._ ”

“Dude, not funny. Good actor, though.”

Panic and furious anger bubble in his lungs. “ _Fuck you._ ”

“Okay... what’s supposed to be the punchline here? What’s up with the private number?”

There’s something deep in his stomach that Sid tries to drown; a cold, heavy mass of anxiety and dread and hurt twisting inside him and weighing him down.

He ends the call.

Sid’s sure of this.

*

Sid calls a cleaning service in the morning, he wants every sheet, every pillowcase, every blanket, every towel, every part of every room sterilized. He knows he’ll forget everything but... he’s clinical like that.

A clean break.

_This is not fair to me, to_ us _._

Why? _Why? Why did you do that?_

*

A trash bag to the trash. Another one to Goodwill. Then two to drag to the clinic.

The receptionist leads him through the too small hallways and explains the procedure as they go. Sid’s pulse thrums in his ears.

Sid sits in the low-armed white chair while they do the scans, put objects down in front of him. The scanners monitor active areas of the brain, the way they light up in response to certain objects. Moving pixels —blue, red, green— the last vestiges of a three-year relationship. They show him the cracked pot —somehow it didn’t break inside the bag— and Sid can see the equipment showing the map of his neural connections getting more complex. They pull out a photo. One of Sid’s favorites. He studies it. The machines register his reaction. Sid’s got this. He can do it.

Next, he sits down opposite Dr. Bettman, who stares at him over a lined yellow legal pad. The click of a pen, the monotone of explanation from an emotionally detached professional. Sid knows. Sid has been that man a hundred times over. There’s a tape recorder on the desk between them.

“We’ll start here. You and I will chat a little. I’ll tape record our session, if you don’t mind, and we’ll get a sense of the memory you wish to erase. Okay?”

Sid nods.

_Tell me about Claude. Tell me how it started._

Sid talks because it’s a means to an end.

_Um, well, it was... I was in Philly with some friends, for a Pens-Flyers game, we—I’m a Pens fan—won that day so... I was in a really good mood. The team had been struggling on the road, y’know? Anyway, I’m not the kind— I don’t like bar hopping, or going out much, being around a lot of people... I have my... quirks. I’m bad at coming out of my comfort zone— but it was a good day, I let my buddies drag me with them, and it was fine, I guess... it was an afternoon game, we started pretty early... Then we got to this bar, we were still near the Wells Fargo Center—it was the Wachovia Center back then—and, uh, Claude was there. He was... different._

_Flyers jersey. Orange hair... Actually, it was pretty blond, around that time. And short. Nothing like the clown he looks like now. I mean, it’s bullshit. He thinks he’s a hockey player, you know, talking about ‘flow’. And what’s so appealing about that? Greasy hair, pale skin, without the skates he’s just a fucking... clown._

_So, um, I really liked him for some reason, I was in a good mood, maybe I’m not that complex, maybe he knew how to make things easier — it was easy, to fall for him..._

*

Sid takes the pill that night, swallows it down dry. He falls into bed.

*

_The pill will put you to sleep. We’ll arrive at your house and make sure that you’re comfortable in bed, and then we’ll connect you to the equipment. For memories spanning three years, the procedure should take a few hours. Possibly up to eight. We’ll delete your most recent memories first, and work back to the very beginning. By the time you wake up in the morning, all memories we've targeted will have withered and disappeared. As in a dream upon waking._

_So you knock me out, hook me up, do your work. Then what?_

_Then, you wake up. Nurse the headaches. Go about your life._

_That’s it?_

_That’s it. As if nothing ever happened._

*

*

*

_(It’s something like the chronicle of a death foretold.)_

They all fly to Philly —Claude, Sid, Sid’s friends— to meet with Claude’s friends. A stupid party. Supposedly for Claude’s birthday. Three months due. But still. They’ve been in Philly before. They’ve hung out with each other’s friends. Still. Sid couldn’t shake it off.

He and Claude are two different people. Sid is more focused, steady, stuck in his ways, has his life set and planned out. Claude is carefree and spontaneous and inconsistent and passionate... and he smiles way too much to other people.

They are supposed to complement each other. Sid is the constant in Claude’s life, the anchor that keeps him from drifting away — and Claude’s there to bring color into Sid’s monochrome life, in a life riddled with routines, Sid needs Claude’s chaos. But not this kind of chaos. Not Claude being _colorful_ with others. Sid doesn’t like sharing. Once he sets his mind on something he wants to have it all, take it all. Sid has to get what he wants because he works hard for it and he wants it always because he needs stability. This is how he goes through life. It’s what’s been working for him from the start.

But what does he know — What does _Claude_ know?

He isn’t even sure who he wants to flirt with. A petite blonde girl. A smug older man Sid’s sure he’s seen before in Pittsburgh—doesn’t matter. Sid is convinced Claude must be punishing him for something, fuck knows what, but he doesn’t stop to think about it. Claude could have just been wanting to have a good time, but Sid doesn’t care because _he_ ’s not having a good time.

_(God, I’m such an asshole.)_

It doesn’t take long for everyone to get hammered. Sid is more than a little tipsy himself. So he naturally blames it on the alcohol, because he honestly doesn’t know why, but Sid goes at this one dude, and he really wants to punch someone tonight. In the end it’s Tanger who takes care of said guy... it doesn’t look good.

And Sid ends up fighting Claude.

Why is he doing this? He should just shake Claude off. He should be fighting his own misplaced rage, not _Claude_. But Sid looks over at him, sees _that fucking sneer_ , the way Claude turns his nose up like he can pretend he’s above this, like he’s daring Sid to go for it, like he’s having the time of his life with this... _(You were fucking mocking me.)_ And nothing feels misplaced. Even once it’s over. It’s just fitting, for them. Claude stops smirking. The music keeps playing.

Claude keeps partying like it’s nothing. Claude keeps flirting and the world keeps turning and Sid’s head can’t stop spinning. It’s just a bout of jealousy, a jolt of possessiveness fueled by Sid’s struggle to enjoy anything he isn’t entirely in control of, and Claude’s inconsiderate inhibitions, and irrational insecurities that Sid would have easily dismissed had he stopped to think about it.

It only goes downhill from there.

This younger guy won’t stop getting in Sid’s face. He’s living in Claude’s apartment now that Claude’s basically settled in Pittsburgh with Sid. Sid doesn’t like him. It’s not like he can expect Claude’s friends to be too happy with him after what just happened —Sid’s also been catching the death glares Geno’s been giving Claude the whole night—, it’s not like Sid’s thinking the best about them right now. It’s fine, they’ll get over it, eventually, hopefully. But the dude keeps talking. Something about taking Claude away. Sid being too good to be true. Sid not being good enough... Sid doesn’t need this shit. Claude is Sid’s. Once everyone’s gone. Once they’re done fighting. Sid needs that certainty. He wants to ask Claude to tell them all to leave. He wants to get out of here himself. Sell this fucking apartment. Take Claude away—might as well, after being accused of as much. Why does Claude keep coming back? — The guy’s mouth won’t stop moving. What does _he_ know anyway? _It’s just a fluke night._ Sid leaves him talking alone.

Only to go try picking a fight with someone else. Claude gets him again, drags him away to the bedroom. It’s not a big deal, everybody’s drunk. Then it _is_ a big deal. Claude is drunk. Sid has had enough.

He swallows at his rage. “Why the fuck are you drinking?”

“Shut up, you’re the one acting like a shithead tonight.” Claude’s slurring his words.

“Yeah you seem too happy out there with all your white knights— You promised me you’d stop drinking.”

“I did. And then I didn’t,” he says with a dismissive little shrug. “Why did you have to make a scene?”

“A scene? You were trying to—”

“To get you out of there.”

The grayness and haziness of the room match how the inside of his mind feels like. Sid still wants to blame it on the alcohol. _Inhale, exhale, inhale, ex_ —did Claude try to stop the fight with Sid in mind or was it about his buddies?

The words are out before he can think better of them. “How many of them have sucked your cock?”

Claude gapes at him, wide-eyed astonishment, then a roll of the eyes. “Jesus Christ. I’m done with you.”

“ _Don’t._ ” Sid grabs him by the arm, hard, scrunches up his nose. “Not a single drop of alcohol. You look disgusting like this.”

“Maybe they’ll go for disgusting.” That sneer again. He wriggles out of Sid’s grasp.

Sid clenches his jaw so hard his teeth start to hurt. “Shut the fuck up.”

“If you ask me again, I’ll tell you,” Claude gazes at him through heavy-lidded eyes, “who else has sucked my cock,” a self-satisfied smirk. “Who would _choke on it tonight_ —”

_(God, you’re such an asshole.)_

Sid doesn’t ask. The door slams shut behind him. He sleeps at Talbot’s.

*

“I know I was a sulky bitch last night.” There goes Sid’s attempt at fixing things. “I just... want to be like this with you, just the two of us, all the time.” Sid speaks between kisses that leave Claude reeling and barely listening to his words. “Will you let me make it up to you?” He pulls back a little to look him in the eye, awaiting an answer.

“Make it up to me?” Claude repeats dumbly.

Sid puts his lips against Claude’s ear, making him shudder. “I know you’re only mine,” he breathes. “Just don’t be _a fucking dirtbag, yeah?”_ A not-so-playful tone, a not-so-playful nip at his earlobe.

“Mmm,” a thoughtful hum rumbles from Claude’s throat, then he’s on Sid’s mouth again, sucking on his lower lip, “you shouldn’t be making out with _a fucking dirtbag_.” He grins against Sid’s lips before jerking back.

He leaves the room without looking back.

*

When they’re back in Pittsburgh Claude is happy and Sid is not. Sid doesn’t want him to be.

Claude leans in and plants a gentle kiss on the corner of Sid’s mouth. Sid tells himself that the last thing he wants to do now is _make out with this fucking dirtbag_ , but his body betrays him and he finds himself relaxing, his mouth softening from jaw-clenching frustration to melt against Claude’s lips. Claude slips his hands under his hoodie, toys with the waistband of his sweatpants, curling his fingers in to tug at the elastic.

“How about it?” He murmurs against Sid’s mouth. “Can _I_ make it up to you this way?”

Claude kisses him again, long and deep, palms running up over his taut back and coming down to settle against his hips.

That’s when Sid pushes him back.

“When are you gonna sell the Philly apartment?”

Claude laughs through a groan. “Why? You wanna make an offer?”

“You said he’s moving out in a couple months, right?”

“ _He?_ Oh— Is that where this conversation is heading? Because—”

“No, it’s about your apartment.” Sid cuts him off too sharp, too quick. “We’re staying in Pittsburgh.”

“I’m not selling it. I hate living here.”

“I told you we could move to—”

“I also miss Ontario.”

“I thought you were considering Cole Harbour.”

“I’ve been considering a lot of things lately.”

Claude looks at him and he looks at Claude and several moments pass in silence, each of them making Sid more and more aware of the fact that they have absolutely no idea how to approach something like this.

“I was 21,” Claude tries, head low. “When I met you. When I started making friends in Philly.”

Sid waits for him to make his point.

His eyes snap up to meet Sid’s. “I don’t like you thinking I’d ever cheat on you.”

“Then don’t go around acting like a—”

“Like a what?” His nose wrinkles.

Sid takes a deep breath, then releases it slowly and carefully. Suddenly feeling exhausted and entirely hollowed out, he just says: “Let’s not do this.”

“Okay.” Then Claude settles into a strange, trance-like complacency.

He leaves for Jersey the next day.

*

During the _cold shoulder period_ , they end up attending a party separately.

Claude isn’t flirting this time. He straight-up comes to the party with another dude.

Sid knows Claude can see the look of baffled rage in his eyes, but they don’t talk about it.

*

“Why do you have to go around telling everyone I’m an asshole?”

“Because you are, Sidney.”

He breathes out a huff of frustration. “Whatever problem you have with me, you talk about it _with me._ ”

“Fine. Let’s talk about it.”

Sid closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. He opens them to find Claude still watching him, gaze defiant as a cornered animal. The words weigh on his tongue before he speaks. “Look. If you want me to apologize, I have nothing— _You’re so full of shit._ ”

Claude throws his head back with a frustrated groan. “Alright. Okay, that was a nice talk.” He sighs, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, and in a strained yet genuine manner, says: “I give up. I’ll stop talking shit.”

This time Claude flies to Ottawa.

*

Sid is in Halifax when he gets a birthday call. And after that, for a couple months, distance seems to be a good thing. They start calling each other every other day. Sid tries not to make a routine out of it. They talk about each other’s days, their families, their cities, the weather, the lockout — They don’t talk about their relationship. Don’t ask questions. Don’t say ‘I love you’. Maybe Sid says ‘I miss you’ one day but Claude stays silent. Maybe Claude slips one night and says something hurtful but Sid doesn’t hang up. Whatever happens, there’ll always be this... _thing_ about what they have, the way everything’s changing yet staying the same... _For better or for worse..._ They call each other every other day, that’s it. _Baby steps today, jump off a cliff tomorrow._

*

They arrange to meet again in Pittsburgh. Go out with the boys, middle of the week, something neutral... and fucking Claude shows up already drunk. He’s treating Sid like shit, he’s taunting Geno, he’s making an ass of himself at the bar — Distance doesn’t fix shit. A bitter, aimless and powerless type of anger starts to stir in the pit of Sid’s stomach, knowing full well how this is going to end for him.

“Claude. We’re fucking leaving.”

Claude turns towards him, and his expression immediately shifts into something harsh and guarded. “Sid,”

“You are drunk, and you said— you promised me—”

“Sid.”

“You don’t need this shit. And you’re fucking me up. The fuck am I doing acting like a long-suffering wife? What are we doing here?” Sid says with impotent rage in his low, half-whispering tones.

“ _Sid._ ”

“What!?”

“You’re hurting me.”

Claude looks down, wrists caught in Sid’s hands.

Sid looks down, a pulse point throbs under his fingertips.

He loosens the grip but doesn’t let go. “I—”

“I’m tired.” Claude twists his wrists in Sid’s grip.

Sid holds on to them, tightly.

“You can break them. I won’t get mad.”

“Oh but you _will_ get mad.”

“I’m tired.” He repeats.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Sid knows what Claude wants to hear. Sid just has to say it. But the right words just don’t come out tonight. “You’re hurting me too, you know?”

Claude pulls his hands from Sid’s grasp. “And you think it’s gonna hurt less if you double down and hurt me more.”

“You’re not helping to make it better.”

“I hate you.” He says flatly, matching the expression on his face.

“You don’t.”

“Sometimes I feel like I could.”

“Yeah?” Sid says in a small voice and it’s the closest thing to an apology he can manage.

Claude glowers. “I’m staying. Fuck off.”

*

Sid is woken by the slam of the front door as Claude arrives home. The luminous numbers of his alarm clock, blurring in his tired vision, say 3:08. He wants to roll over and go back to sleep, but as soon as he opens his eyes the memories of the night and these past months make his chest tighten again and he knows he isn’t going to be so lucky in escaping into sleep now, not with Claude just a few meters away.

_(This is the last time I saw you.)_

“What the fuck?” His voice is rough with sleep, with an edge of harshness. Sid turns the lights on, even though he doesn’t want to see Claude’s face right now. He keeps his distance.

“What the fuck what?” Claude’s sprawled on the couch, didn’t even take off his shoes.

“What the fuck are you doing here, why did you stay there, why did you ignore me for months, why were you talking shit about me, what were you doing with another guy, why don’t you want to leave Philly, why are you flirting with other people, why are you drinking— What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sid almost goes faint with rage.

“I never ignored you.”

He intentionally misses Sid’s point by a goddamn country mile. “I can’t believe you. I can’t.”

“I’m not telling you to believe anything.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Drunk apologies don’t count.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking any kind of apology right now, I’m not picky.”

“From me? For what?”

Claude says the same words. “You’re hurting me.”

And Sid wants to say the right words this time, but the same ones come all too easily to his tongue. “You keep saying that shit like I’m... going out of my way to ‘hurt you’? Is that what you think? Well, I’m not sorry for it. You do all this shit—all the time, you really think _you_ can talk about it? I’m not apologizing. If I’m hurting you, then suck it up like I’ve been sucking it up with you these years.” It’s vindictive. It’s punishing. Sid doesn’t care.

Claude’s body freezes and his mouth drops, a tide of emotions covering everything from disbelief to hurt to rage washing over his face.

“I mean, you still stayed there. You seem to be okay. You stayed there tonight. Ran to Ottawa. Ran to Jersey... So,” the words come too easily. “I couldn’t have hurt you that bad.”

Claude’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.

“Now what?” Sid spits. “Let me guess, _you’re leaving._ ” His pulse is beating too loud in his ears now, every misstep is vinegar on the back of his tongue. “Go ahead, say it. What’s it this time? Too much? Not enough? How long shall I mourn you this time?”

That’s what gets him. Sid sees it. The exasperation, the roll of his shoulders. The way he turns. It burns like venom going down.

Claude’s eyes are sharp and hurt and too bright. “Fuck you. _Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou—_ ”

One second Claude is rabid across from him, mumbling a string of French words. The next, Sid turns to the sound of the door slamming shut, the knowledge that Claude has taken his coat and left.

_He’ll be back,_ Sid thinks, _we need some time to cool down._

_He always comes back. That’s how we work._

_(Why didn’t you come back?)_

_(I can’t believe you did this to me.)_

*

*

*

“Hey, _Hey!_ ” Someone shouts across the street. “What the hell? _What the hell?”_

“Am I—” It’s a familiar face. “Oh, Danny?”

“Crosby.” Sid doesn’t think he knows him that well, but he remembers him nonetheless. “What the fuck are you doing outside Claude’s apartment?”

“You know Claude? I’m... waiting for him?”

“Are you _stalking_ him?” Danny’s previous expression of confusion shifts into suspicion.

“It’s been suggested before, yes, but no—”

“ _Salut, mon chum_ ,” that _mon chum_ wasn’t for Sid. “What’s up?”

“You twotell me _what’s up_.” Now he’s just plain seething.

Sid can only furrow his brows in confusion. “Uhh,”

“I met this stud a week ago on the train back here. Not bad, eh?” Claude tries to keep it light.

“ _Met_ him? As in, _for the first time_...?”

“See, I told him there was something about him—”

“Wait. That was for real? I thought you said that as like, an easy way to approach me.”

“No. What? That’s weird.”

“You told me you’re weird.”

“Whatever. But hey, if you know Danny maybe that’s the link.”

“No. I—” There’s something tense and hesitant about him. “I never thought, about you two... I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you think now?” Claude asks.

“I don’t like it.”

“Danny?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” He turns to Sid. “What did you come to Philly for?”

Sid’s at a loss here. “I—”

“ _Danny._ ” Claude raises an eyebrow, his tone more stern than questioning this time.

“Claude, are you _okay_ with this?”

“What do you mean?”

Danny shoots a withering glare at Sid. “You better not be messing with his head.”

“What did this man do to you, _Criss._ ”

“To _me_? Nothing. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m good, man. I appreciate your concern; you know I do.” Claude reassures him. “Wanna come with us for brunch? I assume you were coming to see me.”

“I’m seeing you. If you say you’re good... I’ll let you be.” Danny sighs, then takes a last, wary look at Sid. “Not in the mood to be a third wheel.”

“That was weird.”

Sid finally feels like he can breathe. “Is he usually like—”

“Not really. But don’t read too much into it, he probably just woke up grumpy and took it out on you—also, he’s very protective. He has three sons. He seemed more surprised than mad.”

“What do you mean? He was clearly angry. You sure that was just... shovel talk? Also, Is there something I don’t know, something I’m missing here? Like, what kind of guys do you usually bring home for your friend to be so defensive?”

Claude snorts, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “He’s just the big brother who refuses to accept his little bro is all grown now.”

“You’re the rebellious teen bringing bad boys home trying to get attention?” Sid suggests in a playful tone.

“So when I bring a decent man for once they must think something else is going on... But now that I think about it, it’s me who’s lost here, if you two know each other, maybe Danny really knows you’re no good.”

“Oh, great. I always wanted to be a bad boy.”

“Why not? I can see it.”

“So, what am I picking you up for? Other than brunch, you didn’t tell me much.” Sid says once Claude settles in the passenger seat, bringing a wave of cold air and an excited smile with him.

“See I was thinking,” says Claude, carefully. “We’re getting STD tested.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup. Let’s do it.”

“So. When was... the last time... for you?” He asks, tilting his head curiously.

“I can’t remember.” That makes Claude frown. “No, seriously... I feel like I’ve been alone for... so long. You?”

“It feels like forever, if I’m honest with you.” He isn’t any more specific.

Sid gnaws at his lip. “What about an ex? Dating?”

“It’s been a pretty lonely couple of years...” Sid looks over at Claude, watches him fuss with the collar of his button-up. “I guess there’s this girl. Met her some months ago—but she’s just a buddy. She’s been calling.”

He can’t help squinting his eyes, “Uh-huh.”

“I know what you’re thinking. I haven’t— I don’t really—”

“If you say so.” Sid shrugs, turns the key in the ignition.

“She’s in Ottawa. I was– supposed to go back home, that’s it.”

“ _Right..._ So... You’re leaving?”

“ _No._ ” The unwavering conviction in Claude’s voice is strong enough to brush away the doubts that were starting to creep into Sid’s mind just a few seconds ago.

Sid lets out a nervous laugh of... _relief_ , shifts his grip on the steering wheel; he gives Claude a cursory glance up and down and opens his mouth to speak, only to promptly swallow the words back— _it’s just a word, it’s just a ‘no’, it doesn’t—_

“I want more of _this_ ,” Claude continues, interrupting Sid’s thoughts. “And I want you to stay, too. Let’s return this rental, come stay at my apartment— I mean, if I’m not being— Am I being too—?”

“You could be a serial killer? Yeah. One with a very specific MO, on top of that.” Sid’s smile almost feels too wide and its brightness is charged by the anxious thrill that starts buzzing under his skin.

Claude huffs, turns to Sid, leans in for a kiss.

*

Sid wakes up in the middle of the night. His mouth feels raw, swollen. His head is whirling, confused and thrilled. For a moment he wonders if the memories that start coming back are actually just the remainders of a vivid, impossibly hot dream – someone trailing soft, slow kisses down his neck from ear to shoulder, one hand raking fingers through his hair just firmly enough to tug a little, the other sliding up under his shirt, roaming his waist and abs and up to his chest – but Claude is there, draped across his chest, bare skin running warm in the cold of the room. His head pounds, his cheek twitches when a strand of orange-gold hair brushes against it.

Claude makes a confused little sound as his eyelashes flutter open. He mumbles something Sid doesn’t catch and smiles against his pec, looking up at him for a second before ducking down further to drag his lips across Sid’s skin.

Claude makes Sid think of good things and bad things and love songs, he makes him feel safe and makes him want to get wild, Sid wants to lull him to sleep and wants to wake him up and ask him to take him away and show him what he’s been missing all this time before he helped Sid find out that trusting on a whim and going with the flow apparently isn’t a bad idea... It’s been two weeks and Claude just keeps making him _crave_. There are times when Sid can only see hunger in Claude’s eyes, and Sid feels like he’s been starving for something like this forever – letting go, giving in, having fun, laughing hard... Claude manages to reduce him to instinct. Their mouths don’t crash and their teeth don’t clash, that just hurts and it’s awkward, it’s the languid kisses and the nuzzling and the light touches and the press of their bodies... _A constant want._

Sid knows it will wear off; his feet will eventually touch the ground again. But right now, Sid goes back to love songs, and it comes off naturally...

_“Tonight you’re mine completely”_

_“You give your love so sweetly”_

_“Tonight the light of love is in your eyes”_

_“But will you love me tomorrow?”_

“What are you doing?”

“Shh. Let me,” Sid runs his fingers down Claude’s spine.

He lets out a pleased, half-asleep hum. “Wasn’t complaining.”

_“I’d like to know that your love”_

_“Is love I can be sure of”_

_“So tell me now and I won’t ask again”_

_“Will you still love me tomorrow?”_

“You’re a terrible singer.”

A crease appears on Sid’s brow; Claude reaches up to smoothen it out with a fingertip.

“That’s like, an old song, right?” He smiles until the frown has left Sid’s face.

“Mhmm, you made me think of it.”

“Is that supposed to be good?”

“Dunno. _Can I believe the magic of your sighs?”_

“Dork.” Sid can feel Claude’s breath on his skin, tickling him. “You don’t look like the type to sing corny songs at midnight with such an earnest expression.”

“Can we stop with this ‘I don’t look like the type’ thing— I hate it,” Sid grumbles.

“Yeah?”

“I get that shit a lot. Like I leave the impression of... not leaving an impression. I don’t know.”

“Oh, you sure are leaving some impressions on me,” Claude says as he nips along Sid’s collarbone.

“Ugh, shut up.”

“Hey,” he lowers his voice to almost a whisper.

“Hmm?”

“I can do tomorrow.”

“I’m gonna keep asking for more.” Sid toys with Claude’s hair, ruffles it between his fingers then smooths it back down.

“Mmm.”

“So? Not gonna give me an answer?”

“We’ll see tomorrow.”

“I was thinking,” as he speaks, Sid’s tone is light and casual with a slight hint of longing, “our first kiss. I can’t believe you thought for a second I wasn’t—”

“What’s not to believe?”

“You had been... flirting with me all day, and when we came here that night – I let you.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“So you just... stare and smirk and talk like crazy to everyone you meet?”

“Talking like crazy is not flirting. Our first conversation was literally about hockey seats.”

“Oh my God.” Sid feels his face flush red-hot with embarrassment as he looks down to meet Claude’s amused gaze.

“Also, you should rethink your standards. I can’t believe I managed to score with a wine stain on my shirt.” Claude looks up at him and his eyes are deep and green and so full of something unspeakably warm.

“I’m glad.”

“Hm?”

“That you’re more than just _nice_.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to be nice,” Sid admits. “I _do_ want to be more than just nice, but not ‘more’ as in ‘nicer’, just– be able to be...”

“Yourself? _How cliché._ ”

“Yeah, myself,” he says, eyes bright, voice quiet and intimate as Claude lifts himself up and kisses him, as they share breaths, “just like you. I like you.”

“Ugh. Gross.”

*

“Sid?”

“Flower! Birthday boy! Happy birthday, man, I hope—”

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you, _merci_ , appreciate it— Now, where on earth are you? You aren’t answering anyone—”

It takes a lazy midweek morning, and Claude leaving the bed to take a bath, and it being Flower’s birthday, for Sid to finally call back.

“What are the plans for today, huh? Boys throwing you a party? Dinner with the family?”

“Are you still in Philadelphia?” Flower asks in a no-nonsense tone.

Sid sighs, smiles to himself. “I met someone.”

“You met—So still in Philly.” He says flatly. “And _that busy_ is he keeping you, you can’t even call? Don’t do this again.”

“Sorry. I told you from day one I was fine. I just happen to be more than fine now.”

“Another Philly boy, eh?”

“How many ‘Philly boys’ have there been I’m not aware of?”

“You’ve had,” Flower replies after some time, “your... wild nights in Philly.”

“You’re just pulling my leg,” Sid dismisses quickly. “Anyway. I think you’re gonna like him. He's French-Canadian. He’s so dumb and full of life—”

“Wait. You found a French-Canadian in Philly? Do tell.”

“Not from Québec, though.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to bring him to Pittsburgh, I’ll see if he makes the cut.”

“Yeah, he hates Pittsburgh. Maybe we’ll go for the next Flyers-Pens game.”

“Oh, a hockey— Are you following the news? Lockout isn’t ending anytime soon.”

“Mmm.”

“Not even coming for Christmas? New Years? Will you two at least go see your own families?”

“Mm—his apartment is cozy.”

“Sid, you’ve met him for like, three weeks.”

“Exactly. I want to spend more time with him. I just— He makes me feel— It’s like, if I look away for a second he’s gonna disappear. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before.”

The line goes silent for a moment.

“Flower?”

“I’m listening.”

“You know, he’s said something similar before. He was like, _‘you know this Aerosmith song?’”_

“Oh, so you’re already in the ‘dedicating songs’ phase?”

“I don’t think I’m leaving Philly anytime soon.”

“But you can’t seriously be considering settling down in Philly? How good is that dick?”

“ _Flower!”_ Sid _squeaks_. “And we haven’t talked about that. He proposed to me, though, sort of.”

“ _What?”_

“He’s crazy.”

“ _You_ are crazy. You better, at the very least, take a quick flight, come back, and pack more stuff to stay there.”

“We spend most of the time at home anyway. I’ve bought sweatpants, underwear, socks—I got the basics covered... It’s tough only having two pairs of jeans, and shoes, not gonna deny that. Yeah, maybe I’ll take a quick flight— _My God_ , wouldn’t that be _acknowledging_...it? It’s making things more formal, Flower, I’m not sure— You know, I like wearing his hoodies, and his scarfs, his coats—”

“Okay. I get it—I don’t, really. I’ll take care of your stuff, you take care of yourself. _Please_ come for your shit, I don’t care about your—”

“ _Flower,_ ” Sid cuts in.

“Hm?”

“You don’t think this is bad? I mean— Having it so bad in such a short time. Like, I’m so happy, he’s good to me, I want to be good to him... but, am I too desperate? But if I am then so is he. Is that a good thing?”

There’s a pause and a sigh on the other line.

“I... I trust your choice in men. You know what you’re doing. You know you have to come back. If you’re so happy, he must be doing something right – and he probably has it just as bad as you do. It could be good for you. Falling, feeling in love again, the butterflies and all that stuff... If it doesn’t work, you’ll move on, I’m all for you getting some love experience or whatever. You didn’t need to get that serious, though, people can _just hook up_ , you know?”

“Don’t say _‘If it doesn’t work’_.” Sid pouts, not like Flower is going to see him.

“You met him less than a month ago.” Flower retorts.

“And I’m here, making it work! Say _‘It’ll work, by the time you bring him to Pittsburgh you’ll have your whole life together planned and—’”_

“You want an advice: hold with the loosest hands.”

“What— Oh, he’s out of the bathroom.”

Flower is probably rolling his eyes now. “You haven’t even told me if he’s hot.”

Claude emerges from the shower rubbing his hair with a towel. Another towel hanging around his waist. Sid stares openly at his body, and Claude tilts his face down, looking almost shy, but the bashful expression is undermined by a slow, wicked grin.

Sid stands up and crosses the room towards him. “He’s... just a guy.”

“Who’s _‘just a guy’?”_ Claude gets his hands on him and starts tickling him and all Flower must be hearing now is Sid’s muffled giggles.

There’s an audible groan over the phone. “I don’t need to hear that. Just hang up already.”

“Flower,” Sid goes back to the call. “ _Thank you._ Have lots of fun today. Here’s to another 40 years! I’ll get you a gift. You’re an all-star—”

“ _See you not soon!_ ” Claude takes Sid’s phone and hangs up.

“Claude!”

He lets out a fake gasp. “Oops.”

“So, what are we doing today?” Sid purrs and leans into the touch as Claude curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’ll do you.” Claude replies, his eyes narrowing, a smile forming on his lips. “We’ll stare at the ceiling for an eternity afterwards... talk about broken dreams and healing wounds and tell embarrassing childhood stories... play videogames, make a wrestling bet—loser cooks... then I guess just, drift off... and wait for tomorrow...”

“Just for tomorrow?”

“Go take a shower.”

“Answer me, you coward.”

“I don’t know... For as long as you’ll have me,” he says absentmindedly. “We need to go out more, dude, we’re bums.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ♫ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnPlJxet_ac)
> 
> [ ’member 2012?](https://streamable.com/caiz8) [ wild times](https://streamable.com/3c333) [ i’m tellin u](https://streamable.com/o02b7) [ lmao](https://i.imgur.com/a7fC1Av.jpg)
> 
> 08-09 klod: [ brownish](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/claude-giroux-of-the-philadelphia-flyers-poses-for-his-official-for-picture-id84136102?s=2048x2048)/[blond](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/claude-giroux-of-the-philadelphia-flyers-talks-to-the-media-after-a-picture-id84840028?s=2048x2048)/[gingy](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D7ValyyXsAEeqYy.jpg)  
> 11-12 klod: [ x](https://streamable.com/1paqw) [ x](https://i.imgur.com/gp4jvXZ.jpg) [ x](https://i.imgur.com/qn7s2IL.jpg)  
> probs the best pic of [ G’s eyes](https://i.imgur.com/o3kNugD.jpg) ever, the world needs 2 see it
> 
> p.s. many of the details in the fic are factually correct (dates, events, results– that knicks-sixers game? yeah I ain’t making stuff like that up), I’m a fool like that and like to keep tabs on dates and details for the timeline. Glad to answer if there are any questions.


End file.
